


Elelator Go Up, Elelator Stop

by GutterBall



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Chuck is oblivious, Just a Kiss, M/M, No Smut, Raleigh needs a hug, Scott Hansen was kind of a dick and that's canon, snark and cussing, starts rocky but gets pretty fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GutterBall/pseuds/GutterBall
Summary: From this list of tumblr prompts (from the bottom group of "we always see each other on the elevator" fills).So on a bad day, Chuck snapped at Raleigh while they shared the shatterdome elevator. Since then, Raleigh's gone out of his way to snark about it, and Chuck has had enough. Unfortunately, explaining himself only makes things worse, and Chuck Hansen finds himself in the position of needing to apologize for something he can't just take back.Shenanigans happen. Gestures are misconstrued. Yancy may or may not be stirring the pot. All smart bets are on "yes, he fucking is".





	

These days, Chuck Hansen actively hated having to use the lift. If his cracked ribs and twisted back didn't protest damn near every move he'd made since Pitfall, he'd never use the damn thing.

Unfortunately, if he wanted to go anywhere but the barracks level, he had no choice. Even if he hadn't been explicitly banned from using the stairs by his exasperated doctor, the jolting steps down and lurching steps up hurt too much. Hurt all through him.

But even more unfortunately, he wasn't the only jaeger pilot who'd been warned off the stairwells, and as he rounded the last bit of hallway, he damn near hobble-stumbled straight into the most pressing reason he hated having to use the goddamn lift.

"Oi, watch where you're going, ya wanker."

Becket, who had reached out toward him -- perhaps to steady him; perhaps to finish the job of knocking him completely ass over tea kettle -- immediately rolled his eyes and took his stupid hand back. "I was just standing here. You're the one who came around the corner like the Judgment."

The statement being true mattered nothing. If anything, Chuck's scowl deepened, and not because the sudden stop had jolted all the way down his spine and set his whole body to aching. "Right, so loitering about like a brick wall blocking a walkway is somehow better?"

The wanker grit his teeth. "I was waiting for the elevator. Where exactly am I supposed to do that if not by the goddamn elevator?"

And that... was why he hated the lift. On rare occasion, he had little choice but to share it with Becket, as they were both under similar medical restrictions -- Chuck with his wrenched back and dodgy ribs, Raleigh with his literal goddamn brain damage, his new drivesuit trauma, and the admittedly brutal beating he'd taken riding out Gipsy's explosion feeding back through the Throat as the Breach closed.

It didn't happen often, but it left Chuck wanting to flip tables every single time. Becket was a wanker, and the wanker never missed an opportunity to--

The lift arrived on their floor, and the doors opened. Neither of them moved toward it.

Then, Becket snorted. "By all means, go ahead. I'll get the next one."

This time, it was Chuck's jaw clenching. "There's only one lift, asshole."

"And heaven forbid I should put your virginal reputation at risk by joining you in it."

That. Fucking. Wanker.

"For the last fucking time, you fuckwit, I am not a goddamn virgin!"

But the giant American asshole who walked like a man simply bowed -- stiffly but deeply -- and turned away from the mockingly open lift, carrying on in that same overblown, faux-respectful tone. "I would never dare to presume, Ranger Hansen."

And with that, the bastard strode away, his fisted hands the only indication that he was just as irritated as Chuck.

And that... was why he _really_ hated the lift these days. And it was all his own goddamn fault, which made the situation even more intolerable. Becket, as annoying as he was, had only been trying to make smalltalk instead of leaving them both feeling trapped and uncomfortable in the slow-moving silence of the lift, and Chuck... had blurted.

Worse, he hadn't even meant to. Just... he'd just finished a grueling physical therapy session, and he was frustrated as hell that he wasn't healing up as quickly as usual -- his PT's protests that Chuck had never actually injured himself this badly before fell on deaf ears -- and he didn't want to talk. To anyone. About anything.

_"You're wasting your goddamn time, Becket. I know your bullshit reputation, but I'm straight, so you're fishing in the goddamn Dead Sea. Keep it in your trousers and leave me the fuck alone."_

Sighing, Chuck hobbled into the stupid goddamn Lift of Shame and directed it to the common level, though he no longer wanted the lunch he'd been anticipating. Becket had given him an incredulous almost-grin after the ridiculous accusation, had even given him an out by trying to treat it like a joke, but Chuck... had doubled down.

Because he'd never once learned how to back down, even when he was wrong. It just wasn't in him.

And he'd hated the lift ever since, because Becket never failed to give him shit about not daring to besmirch his honor by trapping them alone together where God only knew what could happen to such a pure, innocent waif. Worse, Chuck could tell that, under all the sneering snark, the bloke was actually bothered by the accusation, and he had no idea how the hell to take it back.

Thus, they were at a stand-off.

Jesus, if Herc found out Becket was using the stairs against medical orders because Chuck couldn't keep his goddamn mouth shut when he was in a mood....

Gritting his teeth as the lift doors finally ratcheted open, he straightened his shoulders -- he'd become quite adept at hiding the wince of pain as he did so -- and strode out into the hallway, refusing to hobble whilst so many people were out and about. By the time he got back to his bunk, he'd be a sweaty, miserable ball of hot ache all over, but it was worth it. He hated few things worse than being constantly asked if he was all right, if he needed anything, if someone could get that for him.

He wasn't a goddamn invalid.

And he wasn't a goddamn virgin.

But he _was_ a goddamn grown-up, so he didn't react when Tendo and Yancy looked up from whatever they were reading on the elder -- and just as annoying -- Becket's mobile and snickered. Of course the rotten sod hadn't been able to resist telling his brother. And of course Yancy had blurted to Elvis. The two were thick as thieves.

In fact, if Tendo didn't have a wife and sprog, Chuck would be tempted to think the two were... _close._

The Becket brothers did have that goddamn reputation, after all. Any port in a storm; any hole if you're horny.

Goddammit. Even in his own mind, he sounded like a goddamn prude. No wonder Becket thought he was a virgin.

But he determinedly didn't engage, even as the elder Becket went so far as to tip him a wink as he strode by, head up and shoulders back and spine screaming for mercy with every step. He just sorted his tray, found a table in a corner, and sat down to mind his own goddamn business and not stick his foot in anything else.

Herc would be so proud.

"Damn." The elder Becket's voice carried like a foghorn over the usual mess hall din. Probably intentionally. "He has another one of those headaches. He asked Mako if she'd bring him a plate, but she's in meetings with the marshal until late this afternoon."

Or maybe not. The bloke sounded genuinely distressed. Which made Chuck feel like an asshole. Had he been the cause of one of Becket's debilitating migraines? Or had one already been brewing, and dealing with Chuck had just made it worse?

The poor bastard _had_ been a bit pale, now that Chuck thought back. A bit wincy about the eyes, maybe. Had he tried to take the stairs and overexerted?

"Don't even ask." Thankfully, Elvis sounded calm and soothing. "I'll take him something. He'd kick your ass later if you missed your therapy to bring him a sandwich."

Because Yancy Becket might have survived that bitch of a fight almost six years ago, but not completely intact. And five years without proper medical care or therapy to rehab all the damage had left the bloke short an arm and with one leg out of alignment at the knee from the devastated musculature healing wrong.

The tough son of a bitch had ground it out whilst Raleigh took suicide shifts on the goddamn Wall to feed them both, but one look at the damage when they were both brought back had sent the medical team into an apoplectic fit of retroactive treatment.

Raleigh Becket, despite his scars and his trepidation, was declared fit for duty. Yancy Becket... was not.

But he was alive, and Chuck was man enough to admit that he was a bit jealous of the bond between the brothers. He'd certainly never been that close to anyone or sacrificed as much as they had to keep each other alive all those years. He'd been more than willing to sacrifice his life for the world, but the Beckets had sacrificed everything else to stay alive for each other.

Thankfully, neither Tendo nor Yancy shot him a glare as they gathered up a take-away plate and left, so Chuck could only guess Raleigh hadn't ratted him out. He wanted to be relieved by that, but he felt like too much of a shit to manage it. He didn't mean to deliberately provoke the wanker. He just... couldn't help it.

And for all that Becket definitely _did_ mean to provoke Chuck, he couldn't really blame him. He'd brought it on himself.

He almost wished....

But it didn't matter. He'd said what he'd said, and instead of asking him about it so Chuck could explain himself, Becket just loosed that legendary razor-edged snark on him every time they might have to share the lift, and that was that.

Or it would be if seeing the wanker laugh with Mori or fuck about with Elvis or struggle through PT with Yancy didn't send a shaft of... something... right through him. Envy, maybe? Something more knife-edged?

Or something softer, perhaps. Something like longing.

The bloke was easy with everyone else when his body wasn't failing him. Smiling and laughing like the happy asshole he usually was, an arm over his brother's shoulders, his forehead tilted against Mori's, the occasional back-pounding hug as Tendo left for the evening to go home to his wife and kid.

Chuck had never had that. At least, he didn't remember ever having that. Maybe when his mum was still alive? Surely, they'd been close enough for casual contact, for that sense of closeness, of ease in company...?

Stupid. Pointless. He was an arrogant, off-putting jackass, and whilst that hadn't bothered him before, he now had an entire lifetime ahead of him that sometimes terrified him with its blank emptiness. He had no idea what to put in that unexpected future. For all that he'd wanted to live, he hadn't dared think about what he'd do if he did.

Sighing, he finished off his lunch and headed for the hated lift, glaring at it as it yawned open. At least Becket had likely locked himself in his bunk with the lights off and a pillow over his head to dull any sound. Chuck couldn't do any more damage if the bloke was out of commission.

One less thing.

\--

Here they were again, mulishly silent as they waited for the stupid goddamn lift to reach the barracks level. Chuck could almost write the steps of how the dance would play out. The doors would open, Becket would make a stupid comment, Chuck would bite back, and Becket would bite back harder and walk away, both smug and bristling. And Chuck would ride the goddamn lift alone and worry about the rotten sod taking the stairs and giving himself another goddamn migraine.

Maybe if he just... didn't bite back? He'd just keep his mouth shut, no matter what the wanker said. He'd be the bigger man and not rise to the bait.

The ride might be awkward, but they'd both be on it. Problem solved.

So, as the creaky, heavy thing groaned into place, Chuck grit his teeth and determined not to say a word. The doors trundled open.

They both just stood there. The silence stretched out.

Finally: "Go on. I'll wait."

It wasn't a taunt -- the poor bastard sounded exhausted rather than snarky -- but Chuck jumped on it anyway. Because he was an asshole and his resolve apparently had the staying power of a fart in a high wind.

"Becket, I swear to God, if you don't get your ass on that lift, I will knock you out and drag your unconscious carcass on it myself."

He expected a snarky rejoinder -- with his back already sending out distress signals from how pokered up he was, he had less than no chance of following through with the threat -- but Becket only sighed and shuffled in. Chuck followed and jabbed the button for the common level.

Now what? Because the ride wasn't awkward. It was awkward _as fuck,_ and he wanted to say half a dozen things that would likely only fuck things up worse. Clenching his jaw in hopes of keeping all the word vomit in, he realized he was clenching his fists, too, and tried to loosen up. With indifferent success.

They'd only traveled three floors -- god _damn,_ the lift was slow -- when Becket finally spoke up, his voice as low and tired-sounding as before.

"So... what exactly _is_ my bullshit reputation?"

Chuck's right eye twitched, his shoulders screaming with tension.

"I've been wracking my brain, trying to think what the hell I could've done that would make you think I'd jump some guy in an elevator, but I'm coming up blank."

Here it was. The opportunity he'd been silently hoping for. A chance to take back what he'd said and explain that he was just having a bad day and hadn't meant a word of it.

So, of course, he said nothing like that.

"Like you Beckets say: any port in a storm; any hole if you're horny."

Silence.

He wanted to throw up. He didn't mean to say that. That was his uncle talking after one too many beers one night. Herc had looked at his brother with disgust, gotten up, and walked away.

But the words had lingered. Chuck had damn near hated his father by then, and anything Uncle Scott said that pissed off the old man might as well have come down from God Himself.

But he wanted to take them back so bad, and not just because he'd learned the hard way why his old man had turned Uncle Scott in and gotten him kicked out of the PPDC.

The Drift was brutal that way.

His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, and he desperately wished it had felt that way two floors ago so he wouldn't have said a goddamn word.

Finally: "Forgetting the fact that no Becket has ever said anything like that... what the fuck, Hansen?"

He swallowed hard and tried to force his suddenly dysfunctional mouth to work like he wanted it to. "Ray, I--"

"No, seriously." Oh, shit. The bloke had turned to face him and glare, though he thankfully wasn't within arm's reach. "You said you were straight, but you never said you were a homophobic asshole."

That snapped him out of his fugue, and he glared right back. "I'm _not_ homophobic, ya wanker. But I know what happened in Manila, and--"

"Whoa, whoa." A step closer, fists clenched at his sides. "What the fuck do you think you know about Manila? I don't even... what??"

_Stop talking, idiot! Jesus!_

The lift wasn't so slow, after all, because the doors ratcheted open on the common level, but neither of them made any move to exit. He should walk right out the door the heavens themselves had opened for him, but he'd never once taken the easy out.

Besides, if he walked out now, Becket would never speak to him again.

Then again, he might also make things infinitely worse.

Unfortunately, none of that mattered, because his mouth opened of its own volition. "Oh, so you didn't come on to my drunk uncle, then grab his junk when he said he was straight?"

Becket's jaw clenched, and he reached out with a fisted hand and punched the "door close" button.

Well, shit.

"I don't even have to ask who said that, because Herc would have told you the truth." Blue eyes blazed, but the bloke stayed well out of reach, probably to avoid the temptation to throw a punch. "At this point, I don't even care if you believe me, but you're gonna shut up and listen, anyway."

His stomach shriveled up on itself, but he didn't turn away. He'd done the blurting. He deserved the backlash for it.

"I was twenty years old when your uncle -- all of thirty-six at the time -- strolled up to me and Yancy and said he was just drunk enough to want to be the meat in a Becket sandwich."

He'd known. Somewhere deep down, he'd known it couldn't have played out like Uncle Scott said, but--

"Get this through your thick skull, Hansen: I'm bisexual, but I am _not_ a slut. And Yancy is straight and _also not a slut._ So you can imagine our surprise when the guy we'd just dropped with so successfully grabbed our asses and winked and said he didn't particularly care how he got his dick wet, so long as he came at least once for each of us."

He cringed. He couldn't help it. That... sounded pretty much like the Scott he'd met in Herc's memories. Reckless to the point of stupidity, not caring who or what he hurt so long as he got what he wanted.

"Yancy decked him with that right cross of his and I shoved him away, and I thought that was the end of it. He was drunk and acted the fool, but that was it, right? Not like we hadn't done dumb shit while we were drunk and fresh off a kill. But that _wasn't_ it, was it?"

Now, the bloke advanced, stiff-legged and with his fists clenched so tight his arms bulged against his hoodie's sleeves with the strain. It took all of Chuck's will to stand his ground, to neither back away nor advance.

"No, he slunk back to his bunk and told his nephew... what? That the notoriously fuck-happy Beckets had come on to him, and he was pure as the driven snow and straight, to boot?"

Pretty much. And Chuck, all of sixteen at the time and clinging to his uncle because he couldn't stand his father, had believed him. Even in the face of Herc's incredulous disgust. Maybe because of it.

And all these years later, he'd thrown it in Raleigh's face, then had the nerve to be irritated that the bloke was upset about it.

His mouth opened, but what could he say? "I'm sorry" got stuck in his throat, and it was inadequate, anyway. He tried again, and... nothing.

Raleigh nodded like this was nothing more than he'd expected and punched the "door open" button. The ponderous doors lumbered open again, and without another word, the bloke strode out and away.

Chuck didn't blame him. It was just par for the Chuck Hansen course.

\--

He didn't see the bloke for days afterward. Yancy and Tendo stopped smirking at him when he strode stiffly by them in the mess hall, but he didn't get the sense that it was personal. More that they were worried about Raleigh and didn't have time for ribbing the giant walking asshole that had insulted him.

Frankly, Chuck was worried, too. Not seeing him at all suggested the poor bastard was taking the stairs, which scared the hell out of him the more he thought about it. What if the bloke got dizzy from one of his headaches and missed a step? What if the exertion caused... fuck, he didn't even know. An embolism? A hemorrhage of some sort?

So many things could go wrong.

He... had to do something. It was bad enough that he'd hurt the bloke's feelings -- and yes, he hadn't missed the undercurrent of incredulous hurt under the swift anger and righteous rewriting of history -- but putting his health and safety at risk over a stupid misunderstanding...?

But what could he do? He'd known at the time that "sorry" wasn't enough. He'd put the poor sod through months of frustration and irritation because he'd believed his unreliable uncle just enough to hold a grudge against someone who'd been an innocent kid at the time of the so-called crime. He should've known his wanker of an uncle was just being petty over being turned down. Even at the time, he'd known Uncle Scott was... problematic.

Just another thing he'd let his petulant anger at his old man ruin. It just kept having ripple effects, even though he'd let it all go before Pitfall.

But that was neither here nor there. He'd fucked up. He had to sort it. Becket didn't deserve any of the reflexive hate Chuck had slung at him since he'd walked into the shatterdome.

It was time to sort his shit with the bloke.

So, as he rode the slow-ass lift day after day, he wracked his brain for memories of what other people, _normal_ people, did when they were sorry but just saying it wasn't enough. Sadly, even after a week, the best he could remember was his old man bringing his mum flowers once after yet another argument about him shipping out to yet another base.

No chance in hell he was bringing Raleigh Fucking Becket _flowers_.

But he could... maybe... send them? That would be all right, right?

Since nothing else sounded any better -- chocolate was harder to come by on the Rim than diamonds or pearls, and Chuck had no intention of involving Hannibal Chau in this fuckarow -- he eventually spent a full afternoon on his tablet tracking down a florist that hadn't been stomped to a shambles, looking up flower meanings because nothing was ever uncomplicated, and finally sorting a bouquet that roughly meant "sorry I was a complete jackass; please forgive me because I feel bad and I'm bored".

His finger hovered over the "buy" button for longer than was surely necessary, but he eventually did the deed and set it to be delivered to the mess hall by chow time. Not that Becket had been to many chow times lately. At least, not whilst Chuck was there.

Huh. Maybe he should ring in an assist. He had no idea how long a delivery person would wait if Becket wasn't in the mess straight off.

But who?

Mori was closeted with Herc most days, the pair of them missing meals left and right unless the mess sent something over for them. Neither of them had particularly wanted leadership roles, but neither was willing to turn them down after all they'd done to get to this point, either. They'd sucked it up and done their duty, like always.

But it was damn inconvenient at the moment.

Tendo... would give him a look. Worse, the ratbag would ask why, and what could Chuck tell him?

...Yancy?

His kneejerk reaction was to laugh at himself and just hope for the best. He and the elder Becket had spoken even less than he and Raleigh had.

Of course, on the positive side, that meant Chuck probably hadn't said anything horrible to the bloke, which might speak in his favor. And if anyone could be singled out as the one most concerned about the health and safety of Raleigh Becket, it was Yancy. Mori and Tendo ran a close fight for second place, and even Herc was a strong contender, but Chuck was pretty sure Yancy would beat up puppies if they threatened his baby brother.

So, Yancy it was. If he could find the wanker.

But that part was surprisingly easy. The bloke practically lived in the PT wing. The trick was catching him there without the younger Becket hovering nearby.

For once, Chuck's luck was in. Yancy Becket was alone, lying back in one of the leg press machines and sweating as much from pain as exertion, Chuck guessed.

"Oi, Becket."

The bloke shot him a look but didn't stop his presses.

"Haven't seen Ray about much."

Yancy's eyes were a shade darker than Raleigh's, but they had the same exact directness. "Probably because he's avoiding you."

Well, then.

"Right." He shifted, a shock of pain shooting up his spine and straightening him up with a wince. "Just... he's been eating, right? Poor sod's already underweight."

Not that Chuck could tell by the way the bloke fought, but that was beside the point.

It did, however, get the elder Becket to pause with his legs fully extended. "Where's this sudden concern coming from?"

His face heated, but he tried to ignore it. "'S not sudden, yeah? Just... didn't figure he'd want to hear it from me. He'll listen to you, though."

Darker blue eyes narrowed. "And what is it you want him to hear?"

He swallowed hard, trying not to shift again. His back was still fucked and every move still hurt. "Tell him... I'm staying in my bunk tonight." He shifted. It hurt. "He can... y'know, go to the mess with everyone else, yeah? I... I won't be there."

If Yancy's eyes narrowed any further, they'd be closed. "What are you up to, Hansen?"

This was why he didn't want to ask Tendo, dammit. What the hell could he say?

But he was trying to sort his shit with Becket. So.

"You ever said something you can't take back, mate?"

Still at full-extension, Yancy eyed him for a long moment. "So what _did_ you say, anyway? He wouldn't tell me."

But he'd already insulted Raleigh. He wouldn't shit all over Yancy, too. All he could do was lower his eyes and shuffle his feet, despite the flare of pain.

"All right, kid." The bloke sighed and carefully unlocked his knees, going back to his workout. "I'll drag him to supper tonight and make sure he eats."

Unable to look up, Chuck nodded and made his escape.

He'd done what he could.

\--

"Wait, wait!"

Without thinking, Chuck shot his arm out and thrust it between the lift's doors. They bounced harmlessly off and ratcheted back open even as his stupid spine gave a shout at the sudden move.

Worse, it was Becket shouting and trotting through the door. Shit. The bloke couldn't have guessed it was Chuck inside or he wouldn't have been in such a bloody big hurry.

But the silly sod didn't back away or start cursing. In fact, other than a quick nod and a check that the right level was lit, Becket didn't seem at all bothered to be stuck in the goddamn slow lift with his mortal enemy who had called him a predatory slut. As well as a bitch and a has-been.

Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with him?

The first floor passed in silence. Chuck tried desperately not to fidget. He was not having a good back day, and the absolute last thing he needed was to hurt himself and snap at Becket because of it. Yes, he should have taken a muscle relaxer. No, he didn't like the way they made him feel.

Woozy. Not alert.

Helpless.

"So."

Oh, shit. He'd been woolgathering and probably scowling at the control pad. God, why was he such a wanker?

"Flowers?"

At least the silly sod got them. It was nice to have confirmation.

"They were... nice?"

Shifting and wincing and hoping he wasn't about to say something stupid, Chuck shrugged. "'S what Dad used to do for Mum when he fucked up."

"Ah."

Two floors of silence this time.

"Well... thanks."

_Don't fuck it up._

"Welcome."

Oh, thank God, but the doors ratcheted open, and he escaped without saying anything regrettable. He was practically running away from the bloke, but he figured that was okay. He planned to eat something fast, then go back to his bunk and take a goddamn pain-killer.

He was too likely to talk shit when he was in pain, and he had no intention of fucking up the one tiny step forward he'd managed.

Flowers were too goddamn expensive and fiddly to buy on a regular basis.

\--

Yancy Fucking Becket was back to smirking up at him when he walked by in the mess hall, but Chuck ignored the wanker. If nothing else, it probably meant the rotten sod wasn't as worried as before.

Progress, maybe.

So he ate his lunch in peace, all his aches and pains at low buzz, thanks to the muscle relaxer he'd taken a generous twenty minutes before leaving his bunk. He didn't like the foggy feeling, but he hadn't taken nearly as many of them as he probably should have, and maybe he wouldn't be an asshole the next time he bumped into Raleigh if he wasn't in constant pain.

Maybe.

"--just wish I could find that damn candy. It shouldn't be this hard, but they still won't let me out without a damn babysitter, and goddamn if I can figure out what the hell they call it over here to just order it."

It was Yancy's voice, again floating over the low hum of other cafeteria noise. The bloke wasn't loud by any stretch. His voice just carried like a jaeger's battle horn.

"You really think a pocketful of hard candies will get rid of another month-long migraine?" Elvis's voice was quieter but still audible, now that Chuck was listening for it. "C'mon, brother. They're doing everything they can. Just give it time."

He absolutely wasn't leaning closer and watching intently and trying to filter out all other conversation around him. He just really liked the smell of his green beans. Some kind soul had put bacon in them.

"Don't. Just... don't. You know what I mean." Yancy sounded frustrated, even angry, those dark blue eyes darker still. "No, I don't think a sugar rush will fix whatever the fuck the Breach did to him. But damn if I can sit back and watch without at least _trying_ to give him something that used to make him feel better back when times were good, okay?"

Tendo made soothing noises about seeing what he could find since he spoke the local language, and Chuck finally sat back and returned his attention to his near-empty plate. A month-long migraine. Maybe the poor sod hadn't been avoiding just him, after all. Maybe the bloke had been avoiding everything. No wonder Yancy was worried.

Hard candies. They couldn't be _that_ hard to find. In fact, as little as he wanted to contact Chau, he bet the gold-grilled bastard could probably find and deliver in a day if properly motivated.

And the wanker just happened to owe Chuck a favor. Enough of one that he could probably put in the order without even having to say why he wanted it.

Might do.

Thus, he found himself yet again spending his afternoon online, this time on video chat, trying to explain what the fuck he meant by "hard sweets" when he wasn't honestly sure himself and demanding the wanker find him a good four or five bags of them because he wasn't going through this bullshit again the next time Becket needed a goddamn pick-me-up.

But for all that Hannibal Chau was a sneaky black market pirate, he was also a man of his word, and Chuck had not four or five but _six_ family-sized bags of mixed hard sweets stowed in his bottom drawer by supper time, plus one in hand as he headed to the mess. He doubted Becket would be there, but he wasn't deterred.

Indeed, he simply strode right by Elvis and the elder Becket, dropped the over-sized bag on the table by Yancy's one arm, and kept on walking. He had no doubt the short "For Ray" note he'd stuck to it was more than enough explanation.

He tactfully ignored the snickers and "Awwww!"s that followed him to the food counter.

And when his slow, ponderous lift ride back to the barracks level was interrupted on the med level and a pale, wincing Becket paused with one foot on the lift and one foot on safer lobby ground, Chuck just nodded like he had after Gipsy saved his ass in the bay. The bloke sighed -- with relief? -- and walked in all the way, checked the panel, and waited for the doors to close.

The poor bastard looked like hell, and Chuck had no intention of making things worse. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure if silence might be construed as hostility -- it was, after all, a weapon he'd used in the past -- so he wasn't sure he shouldn't at least say _something_. Something harmless and non-threatening, preferably.

After three floors, he decided to try not to be an asshole for once. His voice deliberately low, he settled for a one-word question.

"Migraine?"

"Yeah."

Chuck nodded. "Sorry. I'll keep my gob shut, then."

Was that... a grin? A hint of one, anyway? He was pretty sure it counted, so he grinned a bit himself and deliberately turned his attention to the slow passage of each level until they finally reached the barracks. He even gestured for Becket to go first, if he wanted, and didn't say a word as he followed the bloke out.

Thus, he was surprised by the quiet "Chuck?" and turned a bit too quickly, his back letting out a warning twinge. Becket didn't seem to notice, though.

"Thanks."

His eyebrows rose. "For what?"

After all, it wasn't as if Yancy had given him the sweets yet.

But Raleigh shrugged. "For not...." He gestured vaguely at his head. "You know."

The gesture didn't exactly make sense, but Chuck thought he understood anyway. For not making it worse. For not shouting at him when everything was already too loud or stressing him out when he was already exhausted from the pain. For not being a dick when it would be most effective.

So, he smiled a bit -- he may or may not have used dimples -- and nodded. "No problem, mate. Get some rest, yeah?"

A careful nod, and the bloke was gone, but Chuck considered it a job well done.

\--

It was getting easier to use the lift. That might or might not have something to do with the fact that he and Becket no longer fought over whether they should get in or have a fight.

"How _did_ you hurt your back, anyway?"

Yes, he'd just come from PT. Yes, he was a sweaty, cranky mess. No, he had no intention of taking it out on the over-curious wanker, especially not in the slow-ass goddamn Lift of All Their Sorrows.

So, not turning to look at the silly sod because his spine felt like a twisted, glowing hot iron rod down his back, he grit his teeth and tried not to sound furious. "Fought the drivegear. Pentecost didn't tell me he was ejecting me." That bit still bothered him. He should have known, should have seen it in the Drift. "I tried... but when I almost broke loose, the feedback arced through me hard enough to damn near snap my spine."

And damn near paralyze him, but he didn't like to think about that.

"Jesus."

He lowered his gaze, though he didn't dare try to bend his neck. "Not supposed to leave your co-pilot behind."

But he'd forgotten that if anyone in the world understood that concept, it was Raleigh Becket. The bloke had slogged around in the ocean for God knew how long after killing Knifehead, looking for his brother's remains, piloting solo and still managing to hold his brother's broken body safe as he faceplanted Gipsy on Alaska's frozen shoreline, damn near killing himself with the strain. Had ejected Mori so she didn't have to die with him as he fell into another world to detonate their well-loved jaeger.

Thus, he wasn't terribly surprised when a wrapped sweet appeared in his field of vision, the yellow plastic twisted around it glowing in the lift's low lighting. He took it without comment, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth.

Butterscotch. Not bad.

"Thanks for those, by the way."

That got the first thing resembling a grin for the day. "Welcome."

The rest of the ride passed in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable at all.

\--

"It's not that I don't appreciate the plant."

_Don't get angry. He's not giving it back or anything. Just... listen._

"I just... what's it for?"

The wanker had, for God knew what reason, brought the stupid potted plant with him on the lift. Chuck had specifically told Yancy Fucking Becket to give it to the wanker to put in his bunk, and the wanker was just carrying it around willy-nilly, wasting the effects entirely.

Goddamn Beckets would be the death of him.

But he was trying to be nice. So he unclenched his jaw and tried to be nice.

"Philodendrons are easy as fuck to take care of. You have to be really trying to kill it." He shot the wanker a quick look, then stared at the floor and tried not to shift. He hadn't taken a muscle relaxer today. "Plants oxygenate the air, and better oxygenation has been shown to help with... migraines."

He did not want to see whatever stupid expression was on the rotten sod's stupid face. He'd seen more than enough on the elder Becket's face as he explained why the hell he'd bought Raleigh Fucking Becket a goddamn plant in the first goddamn place.

"Ah."

So he'd done some research. Sue him. He didn't like the constant wince around the bloke's eyes or how rarely the bloke was out and about these days.

"Well, thank you. I'll try not to kill it."

Thank God, but the lift's doors opened, and Chuck practically jumped out, knowing he looked awkward as fuck and only sort of caring.

Becket's voice followed him down the hall. "I think I'll name it Lucky Seven."

Chuck felt not even the slightest sense of shame in yelling back. "Do it and I'll uproot it my damn self."

"Striker Eureka, it is."

Smirking, he kept right on walking.

\--

"I feel like the spider plant should be Striker and the philodendron should be Gipsy."

Chuck rolled his eyes.

"I mean... _spider_ plant. You Australians have those freaky huge huntsman spiders, right? So the spider plant should be the one named after the Australian jaeger."

Yes, he'd bought the wanker another plant. The first one may or may not have helped with the migraines, but seeing how much the bloke liked taking care of it made it easy as hell for Chuck to talk himself into buying another.

"Just sayin. It makes more sense that way."

"Jesus, Ray. Call it whatever the fuck you want, yeah? It's your goddamn plant."

But he wasn't annoyed, and Becket knew well enough to smirk at him instead of getting irritated. Progress.

"Poor Striker would probably get confused if I started calling it Gipsy, though."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "You talk to it?"

"Plants respond to verbal encouragement."

"Bullshit."

"Google it."

He would. And he was surprised to find he was tempted to buy himself a goddamn plant, just to see what all the fuss was about. Nothing would supplant Max in his affections, of course, but Becket seemed to take such simple pleasure in tending his little potted jungle....

Maybe he should get him something with blooms next time. The silly sod had liked the cut flowers well enough. Maybe some more long-lasting ones would get a similar reaction.

He'd have to research what potted flowers were easy to take care of and did well indoors.

"Hey, Chuck?"

Distracted, he didn't look up from the rust spot he'd been staring at on the door. "Hm?"

The bloke didn't respond immediately, and Chuck finally shook off his thoughts to make sure he hadn't accidentally offended the poor bastard when he wasn't looking. But Raleigh was just eyeing him with a slight frown. He didn't look angry. Just... confused?

"I...." Quirking a sudden, small grin, the silly sod shook his head and looked away. "Never mind."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. What was that about? Should he ask? Unfortunately, he wasn't sure enough about how far they'd come to risk putting his foot in it, so he let the moment pass even as the lift's doors trundled open and they both went their separate ways.

He thought about it later, though, as he debated between violets and a Cape primrose. Becket had obviously wanted to ask him something, but for the life of him, Chuck couldn't figure what it could be.

Something about the spider plant? It was supposed to be pretty low maintenance. And surely Becket knew Chuck didn't actually care about the plants' names.

It probably wasn't important.

But he wondered.

\--

The Dynamic Duo had long since stopped snickering when Chuck dropped off his random gifts. They had, however, started waggling their eyebrows, which was... unnerving. He had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

Whatever. That was the biggest goddamn pot of violets in Hong Kong, and if Raleigh Becket named them Violet, Chuck would disown him.

He wouldn't. But he'd be pretty goddamn disappointed by the lack of imagination.

Thus, he was pretty sanguine as he strode into the lift, even after a bitch of a PT session where his therapist insisted his back really was better and Chuck insisted someone had packed hot coals on either side of his spine all the way up and down. That wanker of a PT had insisted he take not one but two muscle relaxers before doing his cooldown so they'd start to kick in just as he finished up.

Some of his mellow mood -- definitely from the medication -- faded a bit as the doors opened on the mess hall level and Raleigh paused before joining him, the frankly ridiculous rectangular pot overflowing with violets held in both hands.

The doors closed.

"Chuck, we need to talk."

That... was not a pleasant tone. It wasn't confrontational or even angry, but it was way too serious for how silly the sod looked hefting a giant-ass pot of purple flowers.

Chuck felt himself go on the defensive. To his credit, he caught himself and tried not to stiffen up.

"You don't have to keep 'em, mate. If you don't like violets, just say so."

Becket rolled his eyes. "No. They're fine. I just... why?"

He frowned a bit. "Thought you liked flowers."

"I do, but... ugh. I'm not...." Frustrated -- but not angry, Chuck noted -- the silly bastard hefted the pot over to rest along one forearm so he could rake a free hand through his hair. "Promise you won't get pissed off if I say this wrong?"

It wasn't an order, but it made him wary, all the same. Thankfully, the muscle relaxers kept him too mellow to be truly suspicious, so he just shrugged and waited as the lift trundled slowly between levels.

"Okay. Fuck it. Here goes." The bloke took a deep breath, then looked him right in the eye. "I know you said you're straight, but I'd swear you're trying to... I dunno... soften me up."

He blinked a moment, uncomprehending. And then it struck him.

Flowers as an apology. Candy for a pick-me-up. Plants to help him feel better. And now, a big-ass pot of flowers just be-fucking-cause.

Jesus. No wonder the wanker was confused.

His face heated until even the tips of his ears burned, and he narrowly kept from sputtering incoherently or throwing a wild punch. Even a double-shot of pain-killer likely wouldn't keep his back from screaming at him if he did so. Yeah, he'd made progress, but he was nowhere near in fighting shape.

And he really didn't want to punch the bloke. Himself, maybe, but not Raleigh.

How could he be so stupid?

"Oh, fuck, you didn't mean it that way." Now Becket colored up, actively backing away until the lift's confines kept him from going any further. "Jesus, Chuck, I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything."

Just fucking great. They were back to Raleigh thinking Chuck thought he was some creeper pervert slut hunting down innocent blokes in a goddamn lift.

He had to sort this, and fast.

"No, c'mon, Ray. It's fine. I'm not... it's okay, yeah?"

But the poor sod looked ashamed of himself, those baby blues downcast and the stupid too-big pot clutched in a death grip with both arms against his stomach.

"Seriously, mate. It's fine. I... I guess I can see where you'd... maybe get that idea."

He caught a flash of blue as the bloke glanced up, then dropped his gaze again. "Yance said... you just started dropping stuff at his table. Like you were eavesdropping on their conversations about me. He thought...."

Well, fuck. He couldn't even deny the claim. He _had_ eavesdropped. Sure, the wanker's voice carried, but no one had put a gun to his head and demanded that he listen.

He hadn't stopped to wonder how it would look. Hell, he hadn't even stopped to wonder why he'd been so on fire to make it up to the bloke. He'd just... the look on Becket's face as he explained what had really happened in Manila. The hurt under all the anger.

Chuck didn't like to remember that look. He'd spent the past few weeks doing what he could to erase it.

Maybe... maybe Raleigh was right to question why. Because right now, Chuck couldn't think of a single reason that didn't sound like bullshit rationale.

He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say. The simple truth was... he didn't like to see Raleigh Becket hurting these days. He much preferred a smile. Specifically, a smile turned his way.

Dammit.

When the fuck had _that_ happened?

It suddenly occurred to him that he much preferred a smile because the bloke was goddamn beautiful when he was happy. Not that Becket wasn't pretty when he was sad -- those fucking tragic blue eyes, the fuck-all lashes shading them and making them darker still -- but a happy Raleigh Becket raised the spirits of anyone in a ten meter radius. The expression wasn't exactly common, but maybe that was because Chuck hadn't been trying to see it until recently.

He'd certainly seen that smile directed toward Yancy, toward Mori, toward Tendo. Maybe not under the brunt of one of his migraines, but plenty of other times. Hadn't he been vaguely jealous of how easy the bloke was with everyone else?

Had he wanted that expression directed at him even then? And what did that mean?

He was straight. He hadn't been attracted to a man before.

That didn't seem to matter one goddamn bit when it came to Raleigh Becket.

Caught -- and strangely unconcerned about the prospect now that he'd let the jinn out of the bottle -- he tried for a grin and only managed to quirk one side of his mouth. Raleigh's eyebrows rose.

"Don't suppose you've heard of something called the Kinsey Scale, mate?"

Those goddamn beautiful blue eyes narrowed, full lips twitching with a hidden smirk. "Why? Have you?"

The other half of his mouth suddenly decided to cooperate, and he was pretty sure both dimples were out in full force as he shuffled over to where the silly wanker still stood against the lift's wall.

"As it happens, I've just done a recalculation."

Still wary but letting some of that fucking smirk out, Becket stood his ground. "Did your number change?"

"Y'know?" Close enough to punch, if that's how it went, he stopped and reached out to gently tweeze a violet petal between his thumb and forefinger. "I think it did."

One eyebrow lowered, but the other stayed right where it was. "Better or worse?"

He was definitely getting punched. Probably worth it.

Leaning close, he looked the pretty bastard right in those gorgeous baby blues. "Reckon that depends on you, mate."

Raleigh didn't back away, so Chuck leaned further still, right over the stupid flowers, and kissed him. Not what he expected. Definitely not like kissing a woman, but not bad.

Not bad at all.

Until the rotten sod pulled back and gasped in horror.

"Chuck Hansen!"

He pokered up -- pleased, even now, to note that his back only kicked up a token protest at the sudden move -- then slumped and rolled his eyes as he realized the silly bastard was trying not to laugh.

"How dare you accost an innocent gentleman in an elevator! You fiend!"

The lift, because it was obviously in on the joke, chose that moment to ratchet ponderously open, and Raleigh Fucking Becket turned with a huff and strode out, leaving Chuck to cross his arms and shake his head.

He'd never live this down.

...Worth it.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe the late summer creativity drought is finally drying up! Er... watering down? Whatever the opposite of... whatever. I can finish things again! Woot!
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me, all. It happens every year, but it still sucks donkeyballs.


End file.
